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he did, he told this monk Drostan a secret, to be shared only with the kin of the Yngling line.’
    The words spilled from Hoskuld like a stream over rocks, yet the last of it clamped his lips shut as he realised what he had said. Crowbone nodded slowly as the sense of it crept like honey into his head.
    ‘Instead, you went to Dyfflin,’ Crowbone said softly.
    Hoskuld licked his cracking lips and nodded.
    ‘At Drostan’s request,’ he murmured hesitantly.
    ‘You are no fool, Hoskuld Trader, you got the secret from this monk Drostan, you know what he has to tell me.’
    ‘Only what it is,’ he managed, in a husked whisper. ‘Odin’s Daughter. Not where it lies, though.’
    ‘Eirik’s axe, Odin’s Daughter itself, still in the world and a monk has the where of it in his head,’ Crowbone said.
    Now it was the turn of the Oathsworn to shift, seeing the bright prize of Eirik’s Bloodaxe, the mark of a true scion of the Yngling line – a banner to gather men under. That and the magic in it made it worth more than if it were made of gold.
    ‘Olaf Irish-Shoes, Jarl-King in Dyfflin?’ Crowbone mused, bouncing the axe in his fingers. ‘Well, he is old, but he is still a northman and no man hated Eirik Bloodaxe more than he – did they not chase each other off the Jorvik High Seat?’
    Hoskuld bobbed his head briefly in agreement and those who knew the tale nodded confirmation at each other; Eirik had been ousted from Jorvik once and Olaf Irish-Shoes at least twice. Gorm muttered and shot arrowed scowls at his captain.
    ‘Well,’ said Crowbone. ‘You took the news to Irish-Shoes, then Orkney.’ Crowbone’s voice was all dark and murder now. ‘Not to Thorfinn, I am thinking.’
    ‘Thorfinn died,’ Gorm blurted. ‘His sons rule together there now – Arnfinn, Havard, Ljot and Hlodir.’
    ‘There is only one ruler on Orkney,’ Crowbone spat. ‘Still alive is she, the Witch?’
    Hoskuld answered only with a choking sound in his throat; Gunnhild, Eirik’s queen, the Witch Mother of Kings. The tales of her were suddenly fresh as new blood in Hoskuld’s head: she it was who had sent her sons to kill Crowbone’s father then scour the world for the son and his mother. Now the hunted son stood in front of him with an axe in his hand and a single brow fretted above his cold, odd eyes. Hoskuld cursed himself for having forgotten that.
    ‘Arnfinn is married to her daughter,’ he muttered.
    Crowbone hefted the little axe, as if balancing it for a blow.
    ‘So,’ he said. ‘You took the news to Olaf Irish-Shoes, who was always Eirik’s rival – did you get paid before you fled? Then you took it to Gunnhild, the Witch, who was Eirik’s wife. You had to flee from there, too – and for the same reason. Did you ken it out at that point, Hoskuld Trader? That what you knew was more deadly than valuable?’
    He stared at Hoskuld and the axe twitched slightly.
    ‘You are doomed,’ Crowbone declared, grim as lichened rock. ‘You are as doomed as this Drostan, whom you doubtless betrayed for profit. Olaf will want your mouth sealed and so will the Orkney Witch. Where is Drostan? Have you killed him?’
    Hoskuld’s brows clapped together like double gates.
    ‘Indeed no, I did not. Him it was who asked to go to all these places, then finally to Borg in the Alban north, where we left him to come to find Jarl Orm, as he asked.’
    He tried to keep the glare but the strange, odd-eyed stare of the youth made him blink. He waved his hands, as if trying to swat the feel of those eyes off his face.
    ‘The monk lives – why would I kill him, then bother to come and find Orm – and you?’
    ‘Betrayal,’ Crowbone muttered. He leaned a little towards Hoskuld’s pale face. ‘Is that what this is? An enemy who wants me dead, or worse? Why sail to Mann if the monk is at Borg?’
    ‘He left something with the monks on Mann,’ Hoskuld admitted. ‘A writing.’
    Crowbone asked and Hoskuld told him.
    ‘A message. I was to